


Of Bards and Witches

by MikShepard



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Explicit Language, F/F, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:16:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikShepard/pseuds/MikShepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catherine is a mystery and Morrigan finds herself wanting to figure her out. Badly. The witch of the wilds is soon at odds with Leliana when they discover they're both after the same woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ostagar

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be putting all my ff.net stories on here as well XD It'll better my chances at getting reviews and helpful tips!

The air stank of rot. Even with the snow covering most of the bodies, aside from the ones they had just made, the smell seemed to permeate the air like an oppressive wave hellbent on singeing the very hair from their noses. The burned out remains of an once proud fort stared at them, surrounded them, familiar and alien at the same time. No bustling soldiers patrolled here any longer; only the dead and the darkspawn held vigil here.

The latter seemed far more numerous, if one was to judge by smell alone. Even the dead did not stink as the darkspawn taint did. It seeped into everything: soaking into clothing, dampening the air, blackening the very ground beneath their feet, sliding into their pores, a silent invader. The stench was not so easily rid of either, a mere bath would wash away the stains but the stench would remain, lodged like a splinter in the skin; only time would wash it away.   

If not for the scented rags Leliana had helpfully provided before they arrived at Ostagar, Catherine was certain she would have wretched up her breakfast. The smell had found its way to her stomach, settling right on top of her breakfast, and the blood sausage seemed ready to gain its freedom again, crawling its way back up her throat at the worst times. 

Chancing an unhindered breath, Catherine nudged the fur lined scarf around the lower half of her face down to her chin and inhaled; snowflakes caught in her nostrils, carrying with them a scent of charred meat. She tried not the shudder at the thought of just what( _or who_ )could be burning. 

“‘Tis the king,” a voice-sensual, impatient, seething with annoyance-interrupted her internal musing, giving the answer she would not admit to herself. “I daresay I expected such a royal man to smell better.” Morrigan clicked her tongue beneath her scarf, golden eyes regarding the Warden beside her with a deadpan expression. 

Catherine made an uncommunicative sound and shook her head; they were not having this discussion again. “Morrigan,” she began dryly. 

“Oh, save your bleating.” The witch made an irritated gesture with her hands and rolled her eyes, effectively cutting off whatever comment Catherine had brewing. “I’ve enough sense to keep that to myself. It won’t do if our _dear friend_ ,” the words were laced with enough venom to make even Catherine flinch, “Alistair decided to fall on his sword. _Again_.”

An argument hung on Catherine’s tongue, one little wiggle away from spilling out. Unlike with her breakfast, which at this point seemed as though it were pressing against her esophagus, Catherine had gained better control of her mouth and promptly clamped it shut, preferring not to fight with the witch if it were at all possible. The flaming sword on her armor was all the reason Morrigan needed to start a fight and the ex-Templar thought better of inciting her ire by pointing out the obvious.

Offering an one shouldered shrug in return for the oral flaying, Catherine hosted Starfang on her shoulder and cracked her head toward their camp. “I’m freezing my tits off.” She didn’t wait for a reply, knowing Morrigan would slink off to her own fire; far away enough for her to have privacy but within sight. 

The witch tsked and swung her staff around to clear off the snow that had collected along the shaft from the fresh snowfall that had started the second their watch began. Whether or not their watch was up, Morrigan was done and she would be burrowing into her bear belt bed roll soon enough. As long as Alistair was still off mourning that fool king, Morrigan had no doubt she’d get some food in her belly before she went to bed. The Chantry wench was not half bad at cooking but the love sick look in her eyes when Catherine walked by was enough to set the witch’s teeth on edge.  

The Templar turned Grey Warden was not bad to look upon by any accounts, certainly. A wave of spun gold, just on the verge of being white, sat atop her head, lazy strands clinging to her neck and high cheek bones. What strands could be caught were braided and strung up in a lazy pony tail, hanging low on her skull, leather thong one move away from breaking free and releasing a curtain of gold to sweep across her shoulders. One green eye peered out from beneath thick gold bangs, the left obscured by a black leather patch that Morrigan had never seen Catherine without.

Even when she tended Catherine’s wounds after the fall of Ostagar, Morrigan had not removed the patch. Curiosity had not dogged her then as it did now. A few scars peppered that area but nothing that could have accounted for the loss of an eye. Catherine did not seem vain enough to wear it simply for aesthetic reasons so whatever she was hiding behind that thin piece of leather must be rather hideous. 

Hideous or no, Morrigan wanted to discover what the reserved woman was hiding. Aside from the patch and scars, her face was just shy of being beautiful. Her skin was light, telling of Orlesian ancestry somewhere in the line, but her accent and mannerisms was all Ferelden.

A light dusting of freckles danced across the bridge of a nose that seemed a tad too big for her face and while her smiles were usually small or crooked, her dusky pink lips and dimples made them for that. If one was especially funny, or exceptionally stupid, they would see a quick flash of white teeth before Catherine swallowed it back behind thin lips.   

Morrigan noted all of these things but did not go staring at her like a moon stuck cow, not like Leliana. She did not sigh and gaze at the camp fire as if the flames would offer her help, she did not sing disgusting love songs in some fruity language that Catherine did not understand a word of or play with her lute, creating songs just for the Warden’s ears. No, she simply watched, content to see Leliana flailing like the worm she was.

Catherine seemed largely ignorant to Leliana’s intentions or perhaps she simply wasn’t into women, but whatever the reason, the red haired wench was having no luck coaxing the woman into her tent.

 _‘Tis possible she doesn’t like redheads_ , Morrigan allowed herself to ponder for a split second before she realized she didn’t care. 

The camp, merely a cluster of tents near the center of Ostagar, seemed as dead as the king and Morrigan caught the scent of cooking meat. Refraining from asking if Cailan was still cooking on his pyre, she directed her attention toward the largest tent in the area, noting the smoke bellowing out of the flap in the roof. Leliana had not braved the cold to cook and Morrigan was not going to brave it to eat whatever the wench had prepared.

Shoving the flap aside, the temperature dropped for an instant as cold air rushed in, but the heat quickly won out and Morrigan shed her gloves and heavy cloak unceremoniously, approaching the blazing fire centered in the tent.

“‘Tis done, wench?” Morrigan drawled, not looking back when she heard Catherine toss off her cloak in the same fashion she had and approach the fire. Catherine’s teeth clamped down on the finger of her soaked gloves and she pried them from her fingers, setting Starfang aside while she warmed her numb digits.

“Yes, Morrigan,” Leliana said pleasantly, seemingly not perturbed in the least. Somehow that irritated Morrigan even more than outright hostility.

After a moment of hesitation, catching a spark of aggression radiating off both Leliana and Morrigan, Catherine reached forward and filled three bowls. Alistair and Sten would come in when they were done with the pyre and she knew her war hound would find his own food if need be.

Without looking at either woman, she handed over their bowls and sat down, setting her ice caked boots near the fire. Without the smell of rot clinging to her every breath, she was able to shovel in the food and have it set comfortable in her stomach. When it didn’t seem like the stew was planning to escape along with the blood sausage, she filled another bowl and smiled brightly at Leliana.

The sight of Leliana flushing, her cheeks coloring under Catherine’s look, sent a trail of disgust down Morrigan’s spine. Resisting the urge to growl, she laid her bowl down before she flung the brown concoction at Leliana’s flushed face and abruptly stood up.

Catherine’s gaze met hers and she found herself tilting her head just slightly up when the Warden stood with her. Catherine was tall for a woman and Morrigan’s eyes wandered to her lips, which she was just eye level with. Heat warmed her cheeks and she cursed under breath, turning away from the concerned green eye peering at her.

“I’ll go check on that fool,” she growled this time, angry at Leliana, angry at Alistair, but mostly angry at herself for blushing.

_I am not like that Chantry wench._

“You’ll freeze,” Catherine grunted, tossing her slightly warmed gloves at Morrigan before she could reach for her frozen ones. The gloves were bigger than her own but she tugged them on, feeling the leftover heat from Catherine’s long fingers. The Templar dragged her cloak over too, setting it on Morrigan’s shoulders before clipping it tightly to her with a brooch and she couldn’t help but feel like Catherine was treating her like a child.

Catherine gently moved her hair away and pulled the hood up, smiling down at her, fingers sneaking into the black locks for a few finger brushes. “You’ve got snow in your hair.” A light of amusement lit up in Catherine’s eye. “It looks nice.” Just as quickly as the touch had come, it was gone and Catherine was sitting back down next to Leliana, eye on her food.

Morrigan stole one last look at Leliana over Catherine’s head as she stood at the flap to the tent; Morrigan’s face burned with pleasure while Leliana’s burned an angry red, blue eyes flashing dangerously. Golden eyes twinkled before she ducked out of the tent.

_Maybe she likes brunettes._

 

 


	2. Snow Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan helps Alistair, Grif is in a gift giving mood, and Catherine has plans to visit someone's tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for returning! Leave a review and tell me what you think!

Morrigan wasn't particularly fond of snow, even less so when it was never ending and stole into everything she possessed. Whatever enjoyment could have been acquired from watching the beautiful white flakes settle on the ground was lost as several flakes slithered into her boots and clothes, chilling her as they settled stubbornly against the small of her back and paralyzed her feet.

Remembering Leliana's nearly blistering red face in the tent, she grinned to herself, warmth flaring in her gut, and set a brisk pace toward where Alistair was no doubt still gawking at Cailan's charred body. Smoke bellowed up from the pyre, a wave of  black in void of white, and Morrigan could practically smell the wolves stalking around the camp. She did not need to hear their howling to know they were hungry. Food was scarce and she couldn't imagine the beasts approved of Alistair's mourning.

_His royal ass would have feed a pack for a day at least._

Morrigan tsked at the elder Warden's foolish sentiments about the dead. Cailan was dead and burning the body would not make a difference. It wasn't worth the effort and denying predators an easy meal would only make them the only source for food. They would attack the rag tag group, if they were hungry enough.

Winter had stolen across the land savagely, blanketing every inch of Ferelden in suffocating waves of white that hindered their travels and no doubt caused trouble for the prowling creatures that now called Ostagar their home. Morrigan wished to be rid of this place but Alistair-and Catherine, she had to admit unwillingly-had vehemently suggested they reclaim what they could from Ostagar.

Catherine, upon an earlier scavenge, had discovered two swords of particular interest. After leaving Alistair with the king's body, the rest of the group had marched on, intent on clearing the frozen fortress of enemies before they set up camp and their persistence was rewarded. The blades were not so easily granted though, as it seemed they had been lodged in an ogre's chest by a man Catherine only referred to as Duncan. To complicate what would have been a simple retrieval, that ogre had been raised from the dead by a hellishly annoying little necromancer they had chased through half of Ostagar. If anything, this new challenge had made Catherine more eager to get the swords.

Morrigan had voiced her desire to simply allow herself and Leliana to take the creature out from a distance,far away from those crushing hands, but Catherine had shaken her head and gotten that stubborn glint in her eye. Morrigan had long since learned that look meant something was about to get bloody.

It had not be an overly tiring battle. Sten had charged the undead beast without hesitation, his face showing nothing but concentration, unnervingly silent as he swung that great sword of his as if it weighed nothing. The strange man  _danced_  in battle. He did not thrash around like Alistair with the foolish shield of his, he did not smash bones and rip sinew with unrelenting force like Catherine did with  _Starfang_. The damage he dealt out was savage but he only struck where he needed to. The goal was not to incapacitate like Alistair or cripple like Catherine-he meant only to kill his enemy as quickly and cleanly as possible.

The two warriors were a formidable team; Sten slashing the ogre's tendons until it could barely move, while Catherine launched herself at the darkspawn beast, journeying along the same path Duncan had across its chest to sink  _Starfang_  into the ogre's head with a satisfying crunch. It was almost comical-in a grotesque way-to see Catherine using the darkspawn's eye socket as a handle on the way down, trying to stop herself from pitching forward and snapping her neck or bloodying her nose against her helmet.

While Catherine made her way back down to solid ground, the necromancer made to run while the Templar and Qunari warrior were distracted, but it didn't get far. Morrigan had been a second too slow to end the monster's life, allowing Leliana to earn a chance to send a single arrow flying. The bard even had the nerve to wink at Morrigan as the arrow found its mark right between the necromancer's beady little eyes.

After freeing her arm from the ogre's eye socket and removing her dented helmet, Catherine shouldered her great sword and regarded Leliana with a lazy half smile, dimples pressing deeply against her cheeks. Her lower lip has been gashed and Morrigan guessed Catherine's teeth has bitten into the soft flesh of her lip on the way down. The blonde woman didn't seem overly concerned about the flesh wound and neatly strolled up the ogre's body to wrench free the swords embedded in rotten flesh, taking care to wrap and bind them tightly so the naked steel would not accidentally cut anyone.

To Morrigan's knowledge, Catherine had simply taken the supposedly prized blades into the main tent and hidden them under her pack. What she planned to do with them was of no concern to the witch, but she had a feeling it involved Alistair.

The witch clicked her tongue in irritation at that thought and forced herself to speed up, hoping to rid herself Alistair as fast as she could. It was bloody cold and if that fool wanted to freeze to death, it was his prerogative.

The man had not moved an inch since she last saw him. His boots appeared to be sunk into the snow and his hair was soaked, dirty blonde strands clinging to an equally dirty face. Simultaneously battered with sweltering heat and blistering cold, he looked very much like a half drowned rat.

_Staring won't bring him back, fool._

With the heavy snowfall and howling wind beating them from every direction, she was surprised to see the flame still roaring, rending every scrap of flesh off the king's body. If the flush on Alistair's face was anything to go by, the heat was overwhelming but still he stood his vigil, face stony, eyes unseeing upon the king's corpse. His battered gauntlets had been tossed aside and his fingers were black-from cold or flames, Morrigan couldn't say-and blistered to the first knuckle.

Knowing Alistair, he had probably used his hands to keep the flames alive instead of his sword or even a stick to resurrect them. He wasn't a very smart man, Morrigan was wont to admit, but she thought better than digging at him while he was standing his vigil. The polite approach it was then.

"Alistair?" The use of his name, not fool or any other insult Morrigan saw fit to dub him as, ripped him from his thoughts and he blinked at her, confused. Almost as if he didn't know where he was or who she was.

"Morrigan." Realization dawned on his face and his lips thinned behind a tangled mass of blonde stubble. She had never seen someone age so fast. The hours spent beside his fallen king seemed to have sucked every last drop of life from him and left a withered old man in his place. Bags hung under bloodshot hazel eyes, from crying Morrigan summarized, and he possessed a gauntness that for a moment she thought him a corpse risen again.

"There is stew in the tent," Morrigan tried slowly. "'Tis no use to starve yourself." Gesturing back the way she had come with an impatient flick of her wrist, she tried to divert his attention back to the here and now. Dwelling on a dead man would do no good.

Alistair's eyes hardened and swiftly returned to the blackened bones laying on the pyre. "I have no hunger," he muttered, blackened fingers curling tightly into fists. "Leave me to mourn, witch."

"Witch? My, how original of you." Morrigan crossed her arms, staff resting at the bend of her elbow, and regarded him with amusement.

The Warden's shoulders twisted under her scrutiny. "What is it you want, Morrigan?" The deliberate snare of her name momentarily caused a flash of regret at wasting her time, but just as her legs started to turn away, intent to spirit her back to the warmth of the tent and the pleasure of Catherine's company, she steeled herself.

_Selfish little man. You won't rid of me so easily._

Gloved fingers dug into Alistair's shoulder, warm through two layers of cloth and steel, hard enough to make him flinch. "What I want is to be rid of this wretched place. What I want is to be warm and through with you. What I want is for you to stop acting like a  _child!_ " Morrigan had spit enough venom to mortally wound any lesser man, but she had never raised her voice. Now her voice bellowed out, echoing so loudly through Ostagar it seemed the battle was replaying. For a moment, Alistair thought he was going to die.

A shove sent him stumbling, then another and another, until he was on his ass and she towered over him, red from cold and fury. "What I want is for you to think! Cailan is  _dead_ , Alistair! No amount of mourning or crying," she jerked a hand toward the pyre, "or foolishly freezing yourself will bring him back!"

Her staff lie abandoned on the hard packed ground and her hood had been thrown back, locks escaping her neat bun and flying behind her, a crown as black as night spilling around her head. Her fists were inches from his face, pale and clenched, mana coursing through her veins so thickly Alistair felt heat coming from her fingertips. She looked every inch a warring goddess, hands nearly aflame, beautiful mouth twisted into a snarl that rivaled Catherine's warhound when his blood was up.

Her hand started downward, toward his face at an alarming speed and Alistair scrunched his eyes shut, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheeks, hands frozen at his side.

A moment that stretched an eternity passed in darkness, the taste of blood on his tongue, belly clenching in preparation for pain. No slap came, no burning agony lit his body, and above the roar of blood in his ears, he heard a sigh.

"Take my hand, Alistair." The Warden's eyes shot open in surprise. "Don't gawk at it, take it!" Morrigan thrust her hand closer, palm up, and Alistair settled his larger hand into hers.

She steadied him until he found proper footing and regarded him with a critical eye. "Catherine can't do this on her own." Her voice was not harsh but still Alistair's face burned with shame. Morrigan released his hand and collected his gauntlets, throwing them unceremoniously at his chest. "There is stew in the tent, 'tis quite good."

Alistair understood. The leather gauntlets chafed his burned hands but he slid them on, readily bearing the pain to get some warmth back into his frostbitten fingers. He turned his gaze one last time to his king and turned on his heel, following Morrigan. The dead could hold no more of his time. He had said he goodbyes.

The walk back to the tent was silent, barring the crunch of snow underfoot and their breathing. Morrigan dusted her staff off and glanced back at the usually chatty man, equal parts relieved for silence and irked by it. Not even the wolves sang. It felt as if the storm had swallowed everything and left them alone in the world.

The tent was their lone haven in the storm, and soon they found themselves at the entrance, huddling into the shelter. Cold air rushed in with them, an unwanted intruder in their safe haven, almost lashing the fire into submission, but Morrigan was able to wrangle the flap closed before the flames were suffocated completely.

Sten and Catherine's warhound had rejoined the party while Morrigan had been out, and brought with them three dead rabbits that looked too small to feed a child, let alone a group of their size. Grif looked absolutely pleased with himself beside the fire, regardless of the size of his quarry; eyes bright, stumpy tail high and wagging, ears at attention, he looked as if he had brought a bronto down instead of three malnourished rabbits.

Grif rose gracefully, red kaddis standing against tawny fur, spiked collar gleaming wickedly in the firelight, monstrously large paws padding silently as he strutted toward the two new arrivals. The bloody remains of a hare sat in his maw and Morrigan had a feeling she knew where he was about to take it. The Mabari had an insane need to bring her _gifts_ , whether she wanted them or not. More oft than not, she found the half eaten, mutilated corpses of animals in her pack or laid out in front of her tent.

If she threw it away or gave it back to him, he treated it as a game and found more interesting places to stuff it and surprise her. After finding the rotting corpse of a squirrel in her bedroll, she surrendered and demanded he bring them directly to her. The spark in his eyes had vexed her to no end, but at least she could use the meat and bones if he brought the body in one piece.

On his feet, Grif stood at waist height on Morrigan and he nudged her hand until she accepted her bloody gift with a grimace. "'Tis quite...lovely." His big, brown eyes shined and he bounded away, taking his rightful place back at Catherine's feet near the fire.

She would add the mangled creature to the stew later. At that moment, however, she wanted nothing more than to shrug off the heavy woolen cloak Catherine had lent her and sit beside the fire to warm herself. Prying slender fingers from wet leather gloves, Morrigan thrust her hands toward the fire, shrugging the cloak off her shoulders and sitting opposite Catherine.

Sten set out from the tent with Grif to hunt(or play, Leliana suggested once while Sten was off, but Morrigan wasn't inclined to believe anything she said)and Alistair was eating noisily beside her, finding his hunger now that ghosts were no longer on his mind. Much to Morrigan's chagrin, Leliana was perched right by Catherine, strumming her lute and singing softly near the Warden's ear. They were close enough to kiss and one twitch from the blonde would see their lips mash together.

The closeness was intentional, and while Leliana's lips were singing for Catherine alone, blue eyes seeing nothing but the blonde woman beside her, the Warden's eye was elsewhere and her lips holding a smile for another. Through out the song, Morrigan could _feel_ the weight Catherine's gaze on her, skin burning in all the right ways under that mischievous green eye.

When the bard was finished, she stowed away her lute and retreated to her own tent with nary a kiss or word from Catherine aside from a mumbled thanks and compliment on the song. The Warden's mind was decidedly on something else. The forlorn look on Leliana's face as she left sent a stab of pity through Morrigan but it was quickly forgotten when Alistair too slunk off, sounding much happier now that he had eaten, and left her alone with Catherine.

Any thoughts about skinning the gift rabbit vanished when Catherine shifted across from her, laying on her side, face propped up by her hand, fingers curled lazily along her cheek. "Thank you." She had changed out her armor, the flaming sword that stood as a stark reminder of why Morrigan shouldn't be interested now out of sight and definitely out of mind. Instead, she donned leather breeches the color of blood that clung to her muscular thighs and calves like a second skin, a roughspun brown tunic under her black leather jerkin, and black leather boots she had looted from a bandit before they arrived.

Morrigan felt a burn start in her belly and decided she had never seen anything so wanton. "'Twas nothing, truly," she answered back, turning her mind to Alistair to cool the flames settling dangerously close to her loins.

Catherine smiled that lazy smile of hers and got to her feet, walking around the fire to stand beside Morrigan. Hand out, eye bright under blonde curls, Morrigan had no choice but to take her hand and let herself be helped up. "Thank you, nonetheless." Strong fingers slipped into raven locks and Morrigan lowered her head as Catherine pulled her disheveled hair into a sloppy bun, hands steady and careful not to tug.

The witch's eyes lolled closed and all too soon, Catherine's fingers left her hair, a messy bun the only evidence of their close contact. "Good night, Morrigan." Tucking a strand of rebellious hair behind her ear, finger lingering long enough on the pale expanse of her neck to send a shiver down Morrigan's spine, Catherine smiled down at her and turned toward the entrance.

"Good night, Catherine," Morrigan whispered to herself, tasting the Warden's name on her tongue and finding she hungered for much more than just her name. "Catherine," she tried, louder, and her heart jumped in her throat when she found herself again under that smiling green eye. A boldness seized her then and she stepped forward, taking hold of Catherine's forearm. "Come to my tent tonight." Her fingers skimmed over Catherine's skin, feeling rises on her flesh that could only be scars, and she tilted her head up, meeting Catherine's eye. "I have a gift for you."

So close, Morrigan could smell the mint on her breath. "Pray tell," Catherine murmured, eye traveling down to the witch's face, "what do you have for me"

"A simple gift." Morrigan leaned up, copying Leliana's earlier position and moving her lips next to Catherine's ear. "'Tis one you'll like, I've no doubt."

The Warden didn't speak for a moment and Morrigan feared she may have gone too far, but when Catherine's head turned and that smiling green eye met hers, she knew she had nothing to fear. The smile on Catherine's face, teeth showing and dimples pressing deep, told her all she needed. "We have third watch tonight." Her voice whispered across Morrigan's skin and she ached in an all too pleasant way. "I will see you then, Morrigan," Catherine whispered, voice dropping lower than Morrigan had ever heard.

"Until then, Warden," the witch whispered, sliding her fingers lazily over Catherine's forearm once more before releasing her. An odd platitude came to mind as she watched Catherine leave. "Sweet dreams," she called softly.

Halting at the tent flap for a moment, Catherine looked back at Morrigan and grinned roguishly. "I always dream of you." Then she was gone, swallowed by howling winds and raging snow. Morrigan didn't hear the howling for the blood pounding in her ears.

_And I always dream of you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to emily_earmuffz for reviewing(and leaving a kudos) on the first chapter! LiluyeAsala gets my thanks as well for the kudos! Hope you all enjoyed it! Leave a review and I'll reply to every one I get!


	3. Winter's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winters are savage in Ferelden but Morrigan has some interesting ways of keeping warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Finals are over and I'm so sorry for the delay!

Sleep was not an easy thing to come by in their travels. The constant threat of bandits, and darkspawn and  _worse_  was enough to keep Catherine awake at night. The taint spawned nightmares hindered her rest further, but she was no stranger to bad dreams. She would rather face a thousand darkspawn and the Archdemon in her dreams every night than dream of her life before. Before the darkspawn and Ostagar, before the taint coursed through her veins and her vows, before she had taken her final step from the Circle tower, her dreams had been haunted by something entirely worse.

She wished with everything in her that what she told Morrigan in the tent had been true. To dream of her golden eyes and pale skin and her voice, silky and sinful all at once, would be preferable to screaming darkspawn and endless battles. To dream of the witch would be _bliss_. She was not immune to the witch's charms, nor was she immune to the effects of Leliana's flirtation. Either woman was quite welcome in her dreams. She'd give anything to find a friendly, smiling face in her slumber for once.

_It's folly to wish things that will never be._

There was only one woman in Catherine's dreams, as it had been all her life, and she never smiled. Not anymore.

Grif had awakened her some odd hours ago after his watch with Sten was over and he had climbed in beside her, curling up along the curve of her calves. Sleep hadn't found her since. The remnants of her dream hung on her consciousness, half forgotten but still there, like a troublesome splinter. She vaguely recalled someone screaming and feeling something similar to pain lance into her eye. That feeling was all too real and she sat up, rubbing what remained of her left eye with a shudder.

Phantom pain, they called it at the Circle, but she knew it was more than that. It  _ached_  like no wound had right to.

Donning her patch again with urgency, needing a barrier to protect herself and others from seeing what lie beneath, Catherine slid out of her bedroll, confident Grif would willingly keep her spot warm. The storm had died down some during the night, but it had snowed again-or maybe it had never stopped-and the air seemed to freeze in her throat.

Alistair would come soon, to rouse her for watch but she was up now, and she intended to meet him so she could wake Morrigan herself. Dressing in the dark, Grif's snorting presenting a comfortable background noise, she decided to forgo her usual armor and instead wear something altogether much warmer.

Catherine had not left the Circle a friend, but she was a Templar of the Order, and it wouldn't do if she froze to death like a peasant when winter came. The Order would see to that. Before she left, the Circle had bestowed on her several small daggers(gifts for Leliana after seeing her talent with them), a long sword which she had granted Alistair after he lost his at Ostagar, a pair of thick leather gloves, and dragonbone boots.

She was not foolish enough to think Greagoir had given such fine gifts easily. The man hated her, she had seen it in his eyes, and when they parted, both had innocent blood on their hands.

The blood on her hands had still been wet when she snatched her white satin cloak from the armoire in her quarters, a gift from Greagoir himself the day she took her vows, and strode out with Duncan at her side. Every eye, mage and Templar, had been on her that day and not for the first time in her life, all she saw was _hatred_ in the eyes of her sworn brothers and sisters.

"White and pure as the Maker's bride," Greagoir's rough voice filled her head and she felt the weight of his hands on her shoulders again, pulling her back to a time she cared not to remember. Too much had happened, too many scars had formed only to tear open again at the slightest provocation, and she had cost too many people their lives to take pleasure in remembrances of a time when she didn't have so much blood on her hands.

Much of what she remembered at the Circle had been muddled, by trauma more than time, and she was thankful. She remembered flashes clearly: a woman's voice repeating her name, softly at first then screaming it until Catherine's ears rang, someone holding her face, whispering that she would never see again. Then she remembered the pain.

It came on her, sudden as a storm, sucking the breath from her lungs and filling her with cold, icy spears digging into her eye until she jammed her palm harshly against her eyepatch, forcing herself to come back from remembered pain. She wasn't at the Circle, she remembered. She was at Ostagar, half naked and freezing, holding her satin cloak in her free hand, her right clawed against her patched eye.

Alistair had just freed himself from ghost, she would not doom the group by falling in his place. Lowering her clenched fingers when the pain in her eye dissipated into nothing, she set about donning fresh clothes. She settled the warm satin cloak over her hooded tunic and pulled on yesterday's leather breeches. The leather boots she had stolen from a bandit in the town over fit just right and stomped into them, lacing her trousers up quickly and efficiently.

The Warden shouldered  _Starfang_ , buckling the scabbard across her long back, and felt dragonbone hilt warming to her touch. Fondly, she caressed the naked blade for a moment, vibrant blue hues shining along the steel when it caught the predawn moonlight streaming weakly through the tent, and slid it home into the sheath, securing it within reach.

Catherine slid on her gloves, moving her fur trimmed cloak out of the way, and bent down to rummage in her pack, pulling free a tightly bound bundle wrapped in grey wool. Twin handles peeked out of the woolen confines and she held them tight, stepping over her sleeping warhound to shove aside the tent flap. Cold air filled her lungs, instant frostbite, and her teeth clamped down, desperately trying to keep in the warmth so ready to escape.

Cold wind pulled at her hood, insistent fingers of ice and snow slicing through to the bone, chilling her flesh and frosting her breath. "Maker's breath," she swore, kicking aside the fresh layer of snow that had formed at the mouth of her tent.

The Circle had always been warm. When winter came and the snow fell for days at a time, Catherine had been warm and nearly forgot about the damned season altogether. Patrol outside saw she never forgot winter's cold kiss completely. The Order cared not one whit about comfort when they designed their armor. Steel was meant to be intimidating, it was meant to make them faceless, anonymous and terrifying. It was not meant to be warm. A warm Templar was a content Templar, and mages, Greagoir said, could take advantage of that contentment.

Without layers of wool and fur, Catherine and her fellow brothers and sisters would have frozen solid come winter. The hollowing wind was hellish coming off the lake and she had seen an older recruit lose a finger to the frost her first year at the Circle.

She no longer remembered his name, nor recalled a single detail about his face, but she knew he had been there when she made her exodus from the Circle. He was her sworn brother, they shared meat and mead, stories and dreams, triumphs and failures, and he had raised steel against her. He lost much more than a finger for that and she recalled stepping over his body on her way out of the Circle.

It was fortunate she had been wearing armor; blood was easily cleaned from steel, not so with wool and silk. The dents and nicks made by her brothers and sisters' blades marred the once pristine steel and they refused her a new set even after Duncan requested better armor. Catherine could keep the cloak and other gifts, so long as she left before the night was done. New armor could take days and tempers were much too hot for that.

The gifts would keep her warm and the weapons would protect her person, but she would have to bear the weight of her armor, along with the scars and troublesome blood stains, by herself. The Order would not forget what she did, and neither would she. She was of the Order and now she spoke on behalf of the Grey Wardens. She could not be seen a beggar; they dressed her in silks and leather, and gifted her the finest blades available, but the armor was hers alone to bear. To strip her of everything would only beggar the Order in the eyes of the realm.

Shaking the memory from her head, not wanting to think on ghost, Catherine stomped a trail into the shin deep snow, cursing everything as she trudged on toward Alistair's post. He and Leliana had drawn second watch and she found them huddled together near their watch fire, both dressed in so much wool she almost mistook them for sheep.

Leliana saw her first and stood, bow drawn taut until Catherine removed her hood and smiled. The bard was quick to smile back and filled her unused arrow away, red hair glistening with melted snow and disheveled, windswept bangs clinging to her forehead. Alistair stood clumsily, a hulking mass of wool and steel, and regarded Catherine with a grin bordering on desperate.

"Thank the Maker," he breathed, frost clinging to the warmth that poured from his mouth with each word. Catherine resisted the urge to chuckle at his frozen state and instead addressed them both.

"Try and get some sleep," she told them. "We're going to head toward Redcliffe at sun up. We should get there within a fortnight, but if we press hard, we'll be holed up in Redcliffe castle in half that." Arl Eamon, if Alistair had spoken truly, sounded like an able man and one like to provide them with warm shelter and food from his own table.

Alistair looked hopeful at the mention of his name, and it was enough to push Catherine toward believing an ally was only a fortnight away. To hope against hope was all she could do.

Gripping her precious bundle tighter, she smiled and raised it toward Alistair, hoping it would lighten his heart. She knew he wanted to stay and recover Duncan's body, but that was impossible. He was gone. Darkspawn or carrion crows had destroyed every trace of him. The least she could do was deliver his fallen mentor's swords, even if she could not deliver the man's corpse.

"I've a gift for you." Alistair held the bundle at arms length and peered at her curiously. When she nodded encouragingly, he unwound the wool and something akin to a soft mewl spilled from his lips.

"Where did you…" Wet, hazel eyes searched green for a moment and Catherine was swallowed up by wool, steel pauldrons pressing hard into her unarmored shoulders.

Catherine smiled sadly and threw her arms equally tight around her new sworn brother, bumping her head against his gently. They were of a height, with less than an inch difference, but pressed against him she could see it now. Stubble, wild and wiry, rubbed against her cheek. "Maker's breath, shave," she jested, not unkindly, and pulled back a half step to clasp his shoulders tightly.

He smiled and tossed his head back to let out a whoop that shook his whole body. "If it weren't so bloody cold, I would." His eyes were still watery but no longer swam with doubt and guilt. He looked himself again, a little worn and older, but the warmth had returned to his eyes and for that, Catherine was happy.

Despite the obvious effects of her gift, Catherine's smile was bitter. "He died fighting, brother." Whatever end he found in Ostagar, Duncan had fought to the last second. "His death will not be in vain," she whispered solemnly, lips twisting downward. The darkspawn had surely killed him, but if Loghain had charged, the man might still draw breath.

Catherine had known Alistair long enough to know that he would not rest easy until Loghain's traitorous head was on a spike. She had half a mind to put it there herself, but she had not lost everything at Ostagar as Alistair had. She would not deny Alistair his vengeance.

The Wardens embraced again, tightly, and broke apart with smiles. "Get some rest, Alistair." Alistair nodded and held Duncan's swords tightly, trying to shield them as if they were irreplaceable. To him, they were, and Catherine could not fault him for wanting to keep something of his old life. "I even cleaned them, oiled them too. They were...messy." Weeks of being buried hilt deep in the rotting flesh of an ogre had left a peculiar smell that took several cleanings to get rid of, but the edge was still sharp as the day it was forged.

Even if the swords had been slick with darkspawn blood and smelled of rotting flesh, Alistair still would have be tempted to kiss her right then and there. That she had gone out of her way to clean them and wrap them up nicely made him want to squeeze her again. Instead he said, "Thank you," his voice didn't waver, but his eyes watered again, "sister."

The ghost of a smile graced her lips as Alistair walked away, holding his cherished swords like an overprotective father would an infant.

"He is a good man," Leliana spoke up for the first time, blue eyes missing nothing. Still, the bard seemed to blend into the background and Catherine remembered just what the redhead was capable of. "It's good he found a friend in you."

"He is my sworn brother," she replied automatically. The Templars had been her family once, but she would never find a friendly face among them at the Circle again. It was odd to her, that it hurt so little to realize she had left one family only to be welcomed into another. She had never belonged there, but she could find a place with the Wardens. They didn't care about anyone's past; all that mattered was a strong sword arm and commitment.

A quirky half smile washed over the redhead's lips at Catherine's answer. "So grim," she teased, lacing her arm with Catherine's, fingers resting on her elbow for a lingering moment. "The night is cold, dear Warden, and I have oils that will light you on fire."

Fingers, soft but twirling just so to whisper of promised pleasures, trailed up the Warden's bicep and a thoughtful expression took ahold of Leliana's features. She was the image of a shy maiden confessing; teeth tugging at her plump lower lip, nose wrinkled, rose coloring her cheeks.

"The nights are growing colder," Catherine agreed. Biting winds nipped at her tender ear lobes and she shivered, pausing to cast her hood back up. "I'll come by your tent on the morrow. Perhaps you could show me then?" It felt half a trap, but Catherine had full trust in Leliana. At worst, she suspected, Leliana would try her hand at seduction again.

Leliana was a beautiful woman. Light where Morrigan was dark, toned where Morrigan was lean, she struck a stark comparison to the witch, but both women were beautiful in their own ways. Leliana was _safe_. She was warm and smelled of summer and she looked at Catherine like she was the only person on Thedas sometimes. Catherine would find comfort in her arms and in her bed.

_Morrigan…_

An apostate, an atheist, a witch, everything Catherine had vowed to destroy all those years ago when she joined the Order. She was everything Catherine should  _hate_ , but she was everything she  _wanted_.

_Morrigan is waiting._

Eyes blue as sapphires looked hopefully up at her. "We could go to my tent right now, if you wish. It would only take a moment." Leliana's teeth worried on her lip for a moment and her fingers grew bold, sliding along Catherine's muscular bicep to grasp an errant strand of white-blonde hair.

Leliana's hand was captured gently, but firmly, in Catherine's before she could go further. Her hands were small, Catherine realized, curling her longer fingers around Leliana's careful. "Morrigan is waiting for me. I will come to your tent on the morrow." Her voice was soft but Leliana looked as if she had been struck for a moment.

The bard nodded absently and withdrew her hands, fingers curling together tightly against her stomach. "Of course. On the morrow." She took a step back and forced a smile. "Promise you'll come? I won't let you out of it now, I'm afraid." There was a teasing undercut to her words, but her eyes were begging.

"My promises are dangerous things, Leliana," Catherine whispered. "More oft than not, people I make promises to end up dead."

_By my hand._

Leliana smiled again and this time it reached her eyes. "I think I can handle it." She looked confident and Catherine smiled weakly.

"I promise." Her throat closed around the words for a half second but she forced them out. "Get some rest, please." They would be getting up in a few hours again and setting a hard pace toward Redcliffe. Leliana sent a smile her way that rivaled the sun and made her leave, snow and wind swallowing up the bard as she retreated to her own tent.

"Charming." Catherine didn't jump but her flesh burned when Morrigan came into view from around one of the pillars nearby, staff free and pointed casually in the direction Leliana had just disappeared in.

"You've been there a while." There was no question about that. Morrigan was seething.

"Long enough to see that little bonding moment with Alistair and Leliana's pitiful attempt at bedding you. 'Tis amusing, but I find my patience running thin for that red haired wench and her pathetic moaning." Morrigan stalked toward her like a hungry wolf and Catherine swallowed. "'Twas I? I would grab what I wanted and take it." Morrigan pressed close and her lips curled into a smile that cut Catherine to the bone.

Her heart beat a steady staccato within her breast and heat slid down her spine despite the creeping chill. "And what does the Witch of the Wilds want?"

Golden eyes flickered to Catherine's lips then back to met her eye. Morrigan drew back and settled down near the fire, warming her hands without looking up at Catherine. "Tell me about your family," she said, dodging the question but Catherine had a feeling she knew the answer. "'Tis bonding time, yes?"

The question startled her but she sat down beside Morrigan, freeing  _Starfang_  from its sheath and laid the naked blade across her lap, fingers flexing along the hilt to keep it within reach. Settling into position, she pressed her back against Morrigan's and leaned against her. This position made certain they had full view of the area and ensured neither of them would sleep, for long or comfortably at least.

The Templars had not asked about her family, her blood family, and she hadn't spoken of them in years. Some things, she decided, were better left unsaid. Regardless, Morrigan had asked her a question and she would answer. "I grew up near Highever. I only saw the castle once," she told her quickly, feeling Morrigan shift behind her. "We didn't starve, but after a while fish gets boring. Better than hunger pains, I suppose.

"My father, he knew the Teyrn. They met during the war, a peasant farmer and a noble lord side by side against the Orlesian horde." Catherine could never top her father's rendition, she simply didn't have a flair for the dramatic, but she would get the tale out all the same. "My father saved the Teyrn's life and near lost his leg too, but the lord rewarded him well. He carved him out a piece of land by the sea and set him to work when peace came."

Whether it was guilt or friendship that drove his actions, the Teyrn always paid double for any fish they sold and went out of his way to seek her father. To reminisce or talk of the future, she didn't know, but she only remembered the Teyrn as a slight man with a big laugh and warm eyes.

"After the war, my father staked out his new land and brought his bride with him. My parents also met during the war, but on opposing sides. My mother was an Orlesian loyalist to the core and even played a part in capturing my father half way through the campaign." Her mother never enjoyed discussing that time, but her father had been more than willing to tell about his capture at the hands of an alarmingly attractive Orlesian woman with white hair and eyes the color of summer grass. "He got away without a scratch though, and he swore to the Maker it was because my mother fell for him the moment she saw his big brown Ferelden eyes."

They had quarreled often. The war was a sore spot for her mother and for a long time, Catherine had been afraid to even ask about Orlais. Her gentle mother, always smiling and happy, turned bitter and dark when her country was mentioned, even in passing. Seeing the horrors her countrymen had committed during the war had left little love for Orlais in her heart.

"I asked her to teach me Orlesian when I was a few years old but she refused." Catherine shifted to snatch up the wineskin Alistair had left near the fire and drank deeply, the mulled wine biting hotly on the way down to her stomach. "She never spoke a word of it. It was like if she did, she'd be invading the country again. I hated seeing her like that." Passing the wineskin to Morrigan, she smiled mirthlessly. "Hearing Leliana...it makes me think of her. I'd ask her to teach me but I think she'd have to stop singing bawdy songs at me."

Morrigan's brow rose and Catherine tried not to laugh. "My father taught me some, behind her back. He was a good man, but he was also a childish man and the first things he taught me were all the bad words."

The wine was warm on her tongue but Morrigan could sense something bitter underneath the spices. "Your parents," she tried, wine numbing her tongue, "are they dead?"

An ache settled in the pit of her gut and she took the wineskin back from Morrigan to take a much needed drink. "When I was eight," she answered, wiping her wet lips with the back of her hand, "our house burnt down and they were still inside when it collapsed." Old habits were hard to be rid of and Catherine found herself saying, "They are at the Maker's side now. Together."

Morrigan leaned her head back and listened, feeling the dull throb of Catherine's heart through her palm as she rested her hand atop the Warden's beside the fire. It was meant as a comforting gesture, one learned rather than known, and it came off as awkward, but Catherine smiled nonetheless.

"My father got me a bitch, black as sin with a temper to match, on my fourth name day and she pulled me from the flames. She was the runt of her litter, oversized head and all, so my father got a good deal for her. I raised her and she outlived all her brothers and sisters." Catherine remembered when her father had pulled the mewling runt from his pack and given it to her. She hadn't thought much of the pup in the beginning, her father warned her the pup might die anyway, as many runts did, but watching the pup grow to half the size of a bull changed her opinion.

Morrigan didn't miss a beat. "The bitch, she whelped Grif?"

Catherine stilled her hand along the hilt of her sword and took another long drink from the wineskin. Her head was spinning but the wine helped her settle down. "Grif is not mine." The Warden could feel Morrigan's fingers curiously curling around hers and leaned her chin down against her chest.

"When Duncan conscripted me, he was not alone. He had gone to Highever before and sought out the Teyren, seeking new recruits. He got his wish, though not as he planned. He left Highever with the Teyren's daughter, Kira. She was wounded, but the Wardens took all sorts, even cripples, so long as they could swing a sword."

Lady Cousland had been savaged, in truth. She had taken a glancing blow from a mace and even the helmet had not saved her from the damage. Her temple had been bashed in and half her vision went when her pretty face was smashed asunder. Even her sword arm abandoned her. "An infection started eating at her arm and Duncan thought to find help in the Circle. There was nought they could do and the Circle was not a welcoming place for me so we were forced to shove off, quickly."

The noble woman had smelled of rot the entire journey but as she lost strength and the infection grew stronger, so too did her hatred for Arl Howe. The man's name had been a hiss on her lips and even after they axed her arm off in hope of stopping the infection, she had not screamed for family or friends. She had screamed for his head and cursed every Howe, living and dead.

"Grif was her pup and near chewed my arm off the first time I touched his mistress. Duncan had to tie him up when we amputated her arm for fear that he would attack us." Grif had been in a lather by the time it was done and growled if either so much as looked at Kira afterwards, but when the stench from her wound grew worse he allowed them over. Little could be done for the woman by then but Catherine made her a promise and granted her mercy before they reached Ostagar.

"Cut off that bastard's head, she said," Catherine mumbled. "Made me swear by my honor that I'd do him in if it cost me my life. I've made plenty of vows in my life and I haven't been able to keep most of them. Not for lack of trying, but my promises are deadly things and sure enough, Kira died just like everyone else."

_By my hand as surely as that mace-wielding bastard that broke her face and Arl Howe for giving the order._

"I was supposed to give a letter to her brother, Fergus, but I never reached him. He was off scouting by the time I got to Ostagar." She still had the letters tucked safely in her pack and she would deliver them, if Fergus yet lived. Kira had not been able to write without her sword arm, but the Order had taught Catherine her sums and letters so she was able to scribe for her. Kira had signed her name at the end sloppily, right hand quivering with each letter, and requested Fergus take Arl Howe's head and mount it up in Highever after Catherine delivered it to him.

Halfway to Ostagar, the wound started festering and no amount of cutting away or applying salves would stop it. Her bicep and shoulder were black with rot and Kira had tugged her close, surprisingly strong despite being hours from death and asked her one last thing. "Kill me, quick and clean," Catherine whispered, echoing her just loud enough for Morrigan to hear. "Take care of Grif, please. He's smart, smarter than a dog has right to be and he'll love you, sure as he loved me."

Duncan had done everything he could to numb the pain but she still cried out, once, sharp and short, when Catherine plunged the dagger into her chest and twisted. Grif had nearly bitten her hand off afterwards when he smelled his mistress's blood on her.

"We buried Lady Cousland with her sword and shield after. Grif sat beside his mistress's gave for hours, howling. He wouldn't eat anything and he bit me when I came close." His teeth had left their mark on her hand and forearm but she hadn't given up on him.

Her own mabari had been stripped from her by the Order the day they found her sitting beside the burnt remains of her home, but she had kept tabs on her throughout her time at the Circle. She had lived to whelp seven strong pups and died warm and content in her new master's home with her pups around her.

Teeth and claw had not stopped her and finally exhaustion took the proud warhound. He took the food offered to him and allowed Catherine to touch him. She made him a promise too and she had a feeling he understood her when she swore to get revenge for his mistress. His brown eyes had cleared and from that point on, he looked at her differently. He lingered at the grave for hours more but their journey continued toward Ostagar and he went with them, trailing after Catherine and promised vengeance.

"We met stragglers on the way to Ostagar and Grif ripped into them like they were Arl Howe's men." Duncan had barely raised his blade when Grif, over a hundred pounds of rippling muscle, slammed into the nearest darkspawn and tore its hand clean off.

The taint could spread even to animals and Grif had been unlucky enough to ingest some while fighting, but Ostagar had been within sight and Duncan told her of a flower for just such sickness. She had searched high and low for the flower in the Wilds to repay Grif for his actions.

After Ostagar had fallen, she had been distraught and thought him dead. He, at least, could survive her promises and met her just outside of Lothering, looking hale and hearty.

"Forgive me," Catherine whispered, clearing her throat and finding it bone dry. The wine had hit her belly and she felt warm but a dark bitterness settled in her gut alongside the mulled wine. "That was a long way of saying my parents are dead." Catherine passed the wine back to Morrigan and leaned her head back against the witch's shoulder, eye closing. "I also drank most of the wine. I'm not being a very good friend right now."

Her stomach flipped in her gut but she blamed the wine and kept her head still when Morrigan turned hers. "You're drunk," the witch said, equal parts exasperated and relieved by the sounds of it.

"A tiny bit," she admitted. In the morning, she would feel foolish. They were on watch and missing the enemy would mean death for them and their sleeping comrades, but thinking on her parents had set her in a black mood and only wine helped when she got like that. "You're going to ask me embarrassing questions now, aren't you?" She'd answer them in her state, no matter what it was. The other recruits at the Circle had done the same but she had someone to keep her in check then. It was just Morrigan with her and she wasn't feeling particularly nervous. "Do try to keep it to a minimum. I want you to have some respect for me."

Morrigan laughed softly and slid the wineskin up to her own lips, tasting Catherine over the spices. "'Tis possible I'll just leave you be." The witch wouldn't waste such an opportunity but she could give Catherine the illusion of mercy before she dug in. "I have a wonder," she began, taking another sip, "do you have a taste women or are you allowing that wench to flail for enjoyment?"

Catherine made an uncommunicative sound in the back of her throat. "Maker, I thought you'd start off light." She pushed up a little, keeping Morrigan's fingers between her own, and smiled. "First Leliana and now you. You're giving me ideas about what you two wish of me. If you must know...yes. I have a taste for women, as you said." Catherine knew what was coming next and her gut clenched.

"Have you ever…?"

"You sound like Alistair," she grunted, hoping the dig would distract her from the question. She wasn't so drunk yet, to forget herself completely. When that tactic failed, Catherine sighed and closed her eye. " _Once_ ," she breathed. Guilt saturated the word and Catherine wondered if it was for the broken vow or her failure to protect the woman from the backlash that caused so much pain. "Once there was a woman whom made me forget my vows."

Another question bubbled up but Catherine interrupted her. "Why did you come here so early? I said I'd met you at your tent."

Morrigan chewed her lip for a moment and tilted her head back, trying to catch up to Catherine's drunkenness. "I could not sleep. 'Tis the wind." It howled constantly but that was the least of Morrigan's problems. "Strange dreams as well."

The Warden laughed weakly. "Maker, you too? The taint has little gifts...nightmares, if it doesn't kill you right out. Infertility and a shortened lifespan too." The witch's fingers stilled against hers. "You never answered my question earlier."

Her palms were sweaty. Wet leather clung to her fingers and she freed her hand from Morrigan's long enough to slip her gloves off. Laying her hand on top of Morrigan's, fingers sliding through the spaces between, she tried not to think about how sweaty her fingers were compared to the witch's. Morrigan was so warm and close, and the night was cold. Her belly was hot and her mind muddled, but she wanted to know the answer. She wouldn't forget it in the morning. "What does the Witch of the Wilds want?" Catherine repeated, twisting her head to look at Morrigan's face.

Catherine's head was still pillowed against Morrigan's shoulder and for a moment, they shared the same air. Morrigan's breath smelled of wine and her fingers grew hot along Catherine's. "Tell me," she requested, thumb making a gentle trail along her knuckles, trying to coax it out of her.

" _You_ ," the witch breathed back at her. The taste of wine was on her lips then and Catherine closed her eyes, smiling into the kiss. The angle was awkward but they made the most of it, shifting until they were both on their knees facing each other, hands tangling in hair and whispering across exposed skin. Pain bloomed along her lips and the taste of Morrigan and wine and blood filled her mouth.

Morrigan's lips were hot and constantly moving; dancing across her lips, then sliding along her cheek, ducking over to her ear and sucking just right on her tender lobe, until Catherine couldn't breathe. Someone moaned, whether it was Morrigan or herself she didn't know, but when she opened her eyes again, her hands were digging into the witch's hips and Morrigan's were clinging to her shoulders.

Her lips ached and Morrigan had a conflicted look on her face, but the wine had numbed her mind to questions of right and wrong. Catherine ducked her head for another kiss but Morrigan moved away suddenly, covering her mouth with one hand and holding Catherine back with the other.

"You damned drunken fool," Morrigan whispered so softly Catherine strained to hear her. Quickly, she moved to cup Morrigan's cheeks; to kiss her, to tell her it didn't matter, to say that she was not so drunk yet and she wouldn't regret it in the morning, but the moment passed and Morrigan shifted further away. "I have something for you," she said breathily, cheeks stained crimson from wine or embarrassment. She was still rearing away as if Catherine were an ogre but she seemed determined. "'Tis the gift I spoke of."

The Warden had nearly forgotten. The wine had settled in her belly and forced everything from her mind but Morrigan. Catherine leaned back, giving Morrigan the space she wanted, and held a hand up to her bloody lip, wondering if Morrigan had bitten too hard or if her wound had simply split open again. Tongue heavy, Catherine regarded her mutely, afraid if she spoke, the witch's taste would disappear from her mouth.

"Hold out your hand," Morrigan requested softly, lips thinning as she reached into her pocket and placed something small and circular in Catherine's palm. It was rough to the touch and warm. She held it close to the flame and heard Morrigan swallow. "'Tis only a small gift, but I prefer if you don't burn it."

Holding the rosewood ring Morrigan had just placed in her palm carefully, she turned it over in her hand to take in the details. "Did you make this?" Catherine had never owned a piece of jewelry in her life. The Order didn't encourage people to personalize their armor in anyway, so they may withhold the image of anonymity, and before that she had simply been too young and far too poor for such things.

The fire light reflected off the grain and Catherine caught sight of several animals carved into it, constantly changing and morphing depending on how she moved the ring. There was magic in this ring, she could feel it. Whatever reason Morrigan had for giving her a ring, a magic ring at that, had to be a good one.

"'Twas my mother's." Morrigan's arms crossed tightly over her chest, looking at the flames instead of Catherine. "A gift for me, but I've no need of it. I wish to be rid of it." Golden eyes stole a look at Catherine's face. "It suits you."

It was curious but Catherine had learned to accept gifts as they came. Tomorrow, in the light of day, she would remember she had a bounty on her head large enough to rebuild Lothering a thousand times and twice the size of the first. Tomorrow, she could remember she was an oath breaker, but at that moment, surrounded by a howling winds and snow, all she could think about was the woman beside her.

"Thank you, Morrigan." Her fingers were bigger than Morrigan's but with some coaxing, it slid home and she held it up for the witch to see, lazy smile in place.

The witch's face was not nearly as happy. "'Tis yours now," she whispered softly and for a second, Catherine thought she saw something close to guilt well up in her eyes. Before she could say anything else, Morrigan turned away and drained the rest of the wine in one gulp, settling back into her watch position. Catherine was tempted to touch her but one look at Morrigan's tense shoulders told her the touch would not be welcome.

Catherine grabbed  _Starfang_ from the ground and sighed under her hood, sliding back into her correct position, back to back with Morrigan. Close enough to touch, to smell her, to feel the heat coming from her body, but she never touched her.

The pain in her lips returned and she swallowed back the taste of wine and Morrigan, icy and strong and sweeter than anything Catherine had ever tasted.

_She tastes like winter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to emily_earmuffz, again, for being awesome and reviewing and giving me some ideas for this chapter! Hope you liked it! The guest whom left a kudos gets my thanks too :)


	4. Season of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy becomes a man through fire and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone! My classes started up again recently so I've been buried(literally)in homework and projects. I'm back and I'll begin writing the next chapter tomorrow. And, so I'm always writing something and publishing, I'm probably going to be posting a DA2 story soon, focusing on an AU I've been thinking about a lot lately. 
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who followed, reviewed , made my story a favorite or left a kudos: emily_earmuffz, LiluyeAsala, Scout4it, and an unnamed guest. 
> 
> Until the next chapter...enjoy!

Tommen wanted to be a brave boy. He was small, weak, but he had his father's sword and no man(or monster)could hurt him when he held steel. His father said so and his father would never lie to him.

Redcliffe, the only home he'd ever known, had become foreign to him. Monsters and demons and every manner of evil had taken root and turned Redcliffe into a solemn place that he did not understand. His father-a stern, ill-natured, bearded man in his thirtieth winter-was never home, except during the wee hours to board the door and kiss his wife good bye.

He was always armored, gleaming red steel under the surcoat that bared Redcliffe's heraldry, and he had taken to wearing his sword constantly. It frightened Tommen, but he dared not speak a word. He was almost a man grown and his father would not take kindly to cowardliness.

At dawn, blood perfume clinging to skin and steel, his father-Ser Brandon Wilhelm, born and bred in Redcliffe-returned once more to see his ailing wife. She quivered in the night with tremors strong enough to throw off even his large father; the shaking sickness, healers dubbed it and offered no help but their solace.

They were throw out for that. His father spat how useless they were even as he flung their earned gold toward them.

Tommen knew it was whispered she would die, but she was his mother, she  _couldn't_ die. The Maker would surely not take her from him; he needed her. The gentle hugs that soothed the most furious of biting remarks from his father, the way her flour smelling hands would run through his golden hair-a shade darker than her own straw blonde locks, but just as disheveled-made his father bearable.

With his father busy, he was tasked with caring for her; feeding her, reading to her when she was awake and restless, rolling her to the side if a fit seized her. A strip of leather was placed between her teeth when the fits took hold, to prevent his mother, Heidi, from biting off her own tongue.

She had been sick for years but his father had been there before; to hold her, to feed her, to pat him on the head when he helped. Tommen was all alone now. Ser Brandon was gone-dead, missing, he did not know.

No one returned at dawn and the door remained barred for days; hunger and necessity drove the boy to leave.

The last crumb had been feed to his mother before he left; stale bread softened with pea soup, bland but edible, though she gave no complaint. She didn't talk much anymore. Since the last fit, he recalled, and that worried him. Heidi always gave him a smile, dark eyes shining proudly, even if the food was horrendous.

Mothers were odd that way, he thought. His father would have told him true and shooed him off to make it again.

Night had fallen hours ago and without starlight, his eyes were good as useless. Blind, petrified under his woolen cowl and borrowed boiled leather, the boy of twelve marched on through frozen hell. Each step seemed to drag on longer than the last and the winds were growing colder by the second: his father's old shoes were too big, his old sword too heavy, and frost slithered into every fold, sure and sharp as blades against his skin.

Tommen was a disgrace in his father's eyes; more plump than most his age, soft of heart and skin, hair silky and long as a girl's would be. He was better with scribing and cooking than at swordplay, and even through his father's smile he could feel the disappointment.

He had began to grow of late and the wispy beginnings of a mustache straddled his upper lip, blonde fuzz growing in uneven patches along his cheeks and neck. It was itchy and irritating, but persistence would grant him the great golden mane his father kept in winter. If he looked a man and held steel, perhaps Ser Brandon would be proud to call him 'son', as he had before Tommen's despicable girlish talents appeared.

His family lived on the outskirts of town, well away from the other houses, but within shouting distance if the need arose for help. The screaming wind would swallow his words so he saved his breath and curled his hands, thick fingers tingling, into his armpits to hold in their warmth. The sword at his waist dragged across the ground, leather scabbard catching on rocks and snow only to hinder his steps, but he would wipe it clean before his father came back-if he did at all.

A trip that would have taken a few minutes in the spring was now more than ten, snow and winds pushing him back every step he took. Sleet froze to his boots, slowing him, but he ground his teeth and took another step and another, until his legs screamed. Leather bound hands met hardwood and Tommen gasped, eager to get inside; to talk to someone, to get food for his mother, to feel another human being next to him. It seemed like he hadn't seen another person, aside from his silent mother, in weeks.

The door was ajar when he found it, but the handle still held a trace of warmth; they must have just left. They'd be back shortly, he reasoned.

Deciding his neighbors wouldn't mind him entering, factoring the weather, he trudged inside and closed the door against the cold, cutting off any trace of ice that desired to make a home in his new found shelter. Stomping his too big boots free of snow, the boy pushed back his cowl and rubbed at his itchy beard, face contorting into a grimace when something rotten hit his nose.

It smelled just like the dead mice he'd found under his bed, a summer past. A prank, his father said, by some older boys who didn't like his girlish hobbies either. He'd fought them on his own too; his father hadn't lifted a finger when an older boy hit him.  _Be a man_ , Brandon said as the blood dripped from Tommen's broken nose.

No healer had been called afterwards. It hadn't healed right and became crooked and hooked, but Tommen's smell hadn't been hindered. The decaying flesh permeated thickly from down the hall and it choked him at a distance.

The house was small; the living room led directly to the kitchen by one hallway and doors, hardwood and sturdy, sat on either side of the hall, both closed. A desk sat in the corner, inkpot tipped over, tainting the white parchment underneath. The rugs, simple wolf pelts from a yesterday's hunt, were covered in snow, icy and stiff under his hands. Furniture was sparse: a threadbare couch sat in front of the fireplace, an old chair, riddled with stains that hinted at generations worth of memory, took up a corner. The fireplace hadn't been touched in days, devoiding the house of any heat and a deep chill, unlike what he had felt outside, settled in his gut as the smell worsened.

Mice were harmless. Dead, even more so. The smell could not harm him. Keeping his voice low as he rambled about dead mice, Tommen drew closer to the kitchen, carefully rapping the first door as he passed. Half a heartbeat was spent waiting before he moved to continue; only silence greeted him. He was beginning to hate it, the silence. If not the cold pressing on him, it was the hunger, or the silence; each carrying with it a voice whispering for him to give up.

_Be a man._

Men did not run from smells. He took another step, tapping the last door softly once more before pulling away to search the kitchen when no response was given. Here, the smell was worse but now he could see the source; little mice, at least a dozen, laid out on the table, a thin layer of frozen dust covering their bodies. They had been chewed on, Tommen saw, when he got closer and his throat spasmed in disgust.

Surely the situation was not so dire that they would resort to eating mice. Tommen dared not touch them; his father spoke of dead rising again during his short visits and that set a fear in him. The dead, even mice, were not meant to be disturbed once they were at rest. Giving the table a wide berth, he scoured the kitchen and cabinets for the tiniest morsel of food.

The cabinets were bare as his own, though inspection of the larder beneath the floorboards granted him salted pork that smelled almost too gamy to chance eating. The morsel was half rotten, but he could cut away the worst of it when he reached home.

Risking sickness was preferable to guaranteed starvation, he decided and stowed it away inside his pack.

Returning to his search, scraggly brows furrowed over pitch-dark eyes, the fair haired boy nearly screamed when the larder door above him roared shut, hinges protesting the rapid movement. Alone in darkness, the suffocating smell of rotten meat his only company, Tommen stood-frozen. Sweat matted his hair and his palms grew clammy, cold sweat coating his body like a slimy second skin; he reached out, fingers clasping around the ladder, wood groaning when he put weight on the first step. It was a draft, that was all. His neighbors must have come home and the wind knocked the door closed.

He was sure to give them quite the scare when he poked his head out. He shouted his name and greeted them, before he shoved the door back open and crawled out, fingers gripping along the hardwood floor until he came upon boots. His eyes scanned above him; tattered trousers, battered surcoat, sword in hand, the man in front of him seemed more a brigand than knight. He stank of beasts and blood.

His neighbors, if he recalled correctly, were old; a man and wife, with a little boy, always sickly and crying, and their daughter, a woman grown with a babe of her own-a  _bastard_ , Ser Brandon sneered at him once. Not one of his neighbors could be placed in those blood stained the boots; the man was too old, the boys too young, and both women were too small.

A hood, brown and stained, settled over the man's face, casting it in shadow. Upon standing to his full height, cheeks flush with shame at being caught crawling, he could see the man's face; hollow cheeks, grizzled beard, skin drawn tightly over pale skin. Tommen did not know this man. A stranger, a blood soaked vagabond in knight's armor, in his neighbors house, naked blade in hand.

His bowels turned to ice. Palms sweaty, he stepped away, for the first time noticing the blood dripping off the blade's edge. The doors in the hallway were open now and Tommen could feel eyes upon him, but he dared not take his eyes off the stranger. He thought to hail himself, reveal himself as a knight's son, but swallowed his words when the man raised his blade.

Tommen's own sword, borrowed from his father's chest without consent, still sat in its scabbard, steel handle within reach. It was old, but his father never let a blade rust; the steel was polished, handle adorned in fine leather that smelled of sweat and blood-the way a blade was meant to smell. Tommen had never raised a sword in anger before, nor swung one with intent to do harm-the mere thought made him ill.

The stranger's sword was chipped with age, rust and blood staining the silver blade a hellish red, but the dull edge held the sting of sharpened steel when the flat connected with Tommen's cheek. The skin tore and blood rushed down his face, soaking into his cowl, and a scream ripped from his throat as pain swam up the crown of his head and down to his toes, a hot wave of liquid agony. It coated him, sticky and sickening, like honey.

The floor was hard, cold, under his fingers but he didn't remember falling. The man was above him, sword raised, and Tommen backpedaled, numb to the pain as he pulled at the handle of his sword.

It came free, the ring of steel sweeter than any tune heard before, and he raised his father's sword to slash recklessly in front of him. It never caught flesh, but the man retreated a step, and Tommen-plumb but nimble- darted between his legs, jerking away when hands grasped at him. He ran passed the open doors, pretending not to feel the hands grabbing at his arms, tugging at his cowl, clawing at his face.

The front door was open, sucking the last of the warmth from the house, and the boy stumbled forward, reaching blindly, fingers grazing the door. His hands were empty; clumsy fingers had lost the sword meant to be his protection. His father would be furious about him losing it; he would take the scolding gladly.

A hand snatched at the long braid at the back of his head, ripping him away from escape, off his feet. Tommen felt something wet running down his neck.

_Father always hated my long hair._

Looking up, flat on his back, the boy could see the hand holding his head belong to his neighbor. The old man looked  _wrong_ ; chunks of his throat and face were missing, decaying black muscle showing through the wounds. His eyes were hollow pits of obsidian, void of all humanity. All that Tommen saw was hunger, pure and primal. A spectre from another realm; he- _it_ -did not belong in Tommen's world of boyish dreams and yearnings.

The man's lips had been chewed away, leaving his savage teeth visible; rotten, grey flesh clung between his teeth, and Tommen blanched at the implications. Blackened, broken, they chewed fruitlessly at his shoulder, stripping away the leather in mouthfuls to get at the flesh within. Sawing teeth met flesh and Tommen screamed.

Flesh and blood sloshed around in the man's broken mouth and he chewed with the ferocity of a starving wolf, biting another chunk from Tommen's leather clad shoulder when he had swallowed the last. A howl bubbled up from inside Tommen when he heard the man swallowing; bloody pieces of him, leather and all, slid down the man's throat with a hearty gulp and satisfied groan.

The wet smacking sound was enough to make him want to vomit, but the man's grip was lessening as he struggled to get into Tommen's armor, his broken teeth aiding him no longer. A few had fallen out, clattering to the floor like so many black rocks.

Shuffling came from down the hall. Tommen could hear more walking corpses, just as dead and hungry as the old man tearing into his tender flesh, coming closer. They were silent, oppressive in their intent, wavering just out of sight, as the man went about his feast of leather and flesh.

Familiar blood stained boots came into view and Tommen found he recognized the skeletal knight now, looking up at the man's scarred face. A mishandled mabari had left the man with a face to remember; long scratches covered both cheeks and Tommen knew if he flipped off the hood he would see the man was missing an ear.

One of his father's recruits-young, easy to smile, friendly even when Ser Brandon showed him naught but disdain-but it couldn't be; the flesh around his throat was torn away and Tommen could see muscles spasming violently. No sound came from him, nor the corpses behind him, but when the sword raised again, blade longer than he was tall, Tommen felt the silence was worse.

Up it went, blade rusted and stained with death, until the man was holding it two handed. The blade did not shake; grip firm, arms steady. It was not until the blade started its downward accent that Tommen felt a bolt of fear race down his spine, jolting him out of his stupefied state. He felt the flesh currently in the man's mouth tear when he moved, felt blood well to the surface when the hand in his hair twisted savagely to get purchase, heard the other corpses start to shuffle toward him, and he screamed, feet kicking wildly.

Freedom loomed inches away. The door was open and snow was gathering around his wound; stiff, frozen spears dug into the bleeding gash until his breath escaped him. The man's grip(Halder, he remembered, his name was Halder)went slack and Tommen seized his chance, thrashing wildly as blood rushed down his neck. He felt faint but seeing the knight's sword closing in was enough to get him moving.

Steel met flesh, skin and muscle torn away easily as flesh from a roast fowl, and Tommen could feel blood erupting from Halder's neck to coat him in crimson. The blade missed him, but he spared no thought on that.

Jerking from the dead man's hands, cowl pressed to the bite on his shoulder, Tommen found his footing and rushed forward, stomach dropping when the knight ripped his sword free of rotten flesh. The knight roared in silence at being denied his quarry, throat convulsing to produce wet gurgling. In two great strides he was upon Tommen, sword flashing dangerously close to the boy's unprotected head.

One swipe and he would not have to worry about starving. Ducking down and throwing himself toward the door, bloodied steel slammed into the hard wooden frame inches from his blonde head; splinters rained down as the wood gave way with a weary sign. Breathless, Tommen found himself elbow deep in bone numbing snow, swordless and bloody, but alive. With effort, he forced himself to stand on unsteady feet, and watch the raging man still gripping his sword tightly.

Dumbly, he continued to jerk at the embedded sword, howling and hissing deep in his gashed throat but never advancing so long as his sword was stuck. Tommen spared no time. He turned tail and ran, forgetting his father's sword, nearly dropping his precious pack, ignoring the blood rushing from his shoulder; he felt only the burn in his calves and an ache in his lungs. The rush of blood to his ears was like an ancient enemy's warhorn; dread filled him and he embraced his momentarily deafness to the creatures behind him. In that moment, he could pretend he was just taking a stroll in the snow.

The trip there had been slow, leisurely even in comparison, but now his lungs screamed and his heart rammed against its cage of bone. He feared it would escape him then, and leave him in the snow with a bloody hole in his chest.

Cold punched into his lungs but the burning blood oozing from his wounds warmed him, steam rising as the hot lifeblood met frozen air. Over the sound of his own panting and sobbing, he could hear a sigh from behind him; old wood being split.

The Maker granted him speed and he ran, sliding along the deep snow drifts, ice cracking under his boots. Not once did he lose his footing. Ser Brandon once said he would make a good hunter, if only he didn't cry so much when he killed something.

Maybe when this was done and Redcliffe was his home again, Tommen would be the man his father wished him to be.

Piles of snow, shoved to the side to help travel, lorded above him, angry white hands of frozen death snatching at his clothing and flesh. Each stumble saw the creatures of rage and hunger closer than the last. He dared not look behind him, for fear they were within reach.

Home was so close, he could near smell his mother's perfume, lavender and vanilla, and the scent of leather, his father's chosen perfume. A misstep now would mean death for his mother, and for him as well. There was no room for fear. Not when he was so close.

Snow hid troublesome ice along the path, deadly patches nearly sending him sprawling face first into the ground, but his boots dug in deep, anchoring him.

The walking corpses had no such luck.

Graceless, they slid and stumbled, not so sure footed with their bare feet. Like mummers in a play, they bumped into each other and roared in anger, struggling to stay grounded. If he were not bleeding and freezing, he would have found the spectacle funny.

These mummers would not play tricks on him and trade jokes, should they catch him. They would tear what was left of his flesh off and feast, like a murder of carrion crows upon the fresh dead. A fair meal he would make, fat as he was. They had only to crack open his leather shell and dig in.

Wrapped in red rags and wearing the faces of his neighbors, they followed him like hounds on the scent of blood. The sickly boy, weak little legs flailing as he ran, mouth bloody and gaping; the young woman, belly split open like a great crimson smile, ready to swallow him whole; the raging knight, ashen face twisted into a grimace; the aged woman, spitting and drooling, the lower half of her face chewed off.

Adrenalin pounded in his veins, not waning a bit even as his eyes found home and his fingers beat at the handle, wrenching the door open. Darkness, deep and heavy as the Void, stared accusingly back at him. Faintly, he remembered lighting candles before starting out so his mother would not be left blind.

Stones, heavy and poisoning, filled his empty belly, and his bowels twisted into painful knots. Nausea rising, he eyed the darkness, feeling its bony fingers trailing along his skin, beckoning him inside. It was his home and outside there was naught but cold and death. Yet, he slowed his frantic pace with the dead at his back, and pushed inside carefully-cautiously, as to defend against some inevitable attack-before he slammed the door shut against the howling dead and pulled the bar down to secure it shut.

The dead scratched and clawed and screeched against the wood, throwing themselves against it with bloodying force. The bar rattled loudly, but it held firm. Tiny hands, the boy's, slid into the space under the door, but they found no purchase, blackened fingers clawing fruitlessly against the boards.

Tommen backed away, trusting the door to hold against a wave of dead. The wood groaned, a long suffering sound that tugged at his heart, but he retreated further into the house, seeking a basin to wash his wounds.

The scent of rotting meat tinged the air; coming from the dead beating themselves bloody against the door or the salted pork in his pack-he did not know.

Out of danger, for now, the adrenaline tapered off and the young boy whimpered, pulling the cowl away from his wound to touch at the blackened and bloody skin underneath. It was not terribly deep, the man's teeth had been too dull, but without proper care it would become infected. Even the smallest wound could kill if infection set in. Already, he became hypersensitive of the overwhelming heat that settled over every inch of his body.

Carrying his precious pack further into the house, the pounding coming from outside fading into background noise, he lowered the pack to the floor beside his mother's room. A basin sat across the hall and he dragged himself over, washing the wounds as he stripped off his boiled leather and tugged his cowl free. Trying not to cry out and wake his mother when the fabric held fast, Tommen chewed on his lip to suppress a squeak of pain.

Icy water, clean and flat tasting, managed to quench his thirst and sate his worry-for the time being-about infection when he smeared it across the bite. The water was filthy by the time he was done; it ran red and patches of skin he'd pulled off to better see the wound swirled around in the bowl.

It seemed the stench was coming from him. Laying the cowl back upon the wound, he pressed it tightly and sighed, limbs growing heavy.

Outside, the pounding stopped.

The bloody boy sank to the floor and pressed a closed fist to his mother's door, calling to her once-twice-but expecting no answer. Exhaustion settled on him, a warm blanket more comforting than his mother's arms, and he gave in for a moment, telling himself he would get up soon to feed his mother spoiled pork and hope she grew no worse

She was dying as it was. The thought sunk in deep but he didn't fight it.

He was dying too.

Sleep tugged on his consciousness, soft as his mother's fingers. Grasping the pack closer, a physical shield against sleep, he stood up slowly, knees popping with a disgusting crunch. A soft groan escaped him but he swallowed the next and pushed open his mother's door, holding the salted pork in his hands like cherished gold.

The room was larger than his own: an old armoire took up one wall, nearly bursting with unwashed clothes and bloody leather; a bookcase tall as his father, sat beside the door; a plain vanity sat on his mother's side of the room, but Tommen had covered the mirror with a sheet. Seeing himself, pale and haggard, everytime he came into the room unnerved him greatly.

It was bare, whereas his room was stuffed with trinkets and books, meant for sleeping and little else. Ser Brandon's hand was firm, even in decoration. If it had no use, he would not have it take up space.

His mother was the only reason he could suffer the uninviting room.

The bed, large and covered soft woolen sheets, was the only spot he saw Heidi's touch. She had sewed the sheets herself as a present to her knighted husband; they were too soft, too ornament for him, but he smiled and accepted them anyway. The pillows, stuffed with soft down and covered with scrounged silk, were a present from Tommen. He remembered his father wearing a rare smile when he told Ser Brandon he'd gotten the feathers. It went left unsaid that he had not killed the birds himself.

The bed, piled high with soft pillows and as many sheets as Tommen could carry, was his mother's resting place. Soft, pale, constant, Heidi sat atop her throne of pillows in silence, eyes shut: dead to the world. Gnawed leather, frequently left on top of the nightstand in the event that she have a fit at night, lay next to her head: unwashed, bloody, still sticky with saliva and gouged by teeth.

Much to the boy's horror, the fits had been recurring almost nightly, though she was still now; still as the dead outside. Picturing his mother spitting and gnashing her teeth together, chomping down on her tongue when he was not fast enough, made his heart throb painfully.

She bleed often, but never enough to justify calling a healer. His father had little faith in them after they failed to cure his wife and dreaded the thought of paying them more to tell him nothing. Gold was scarce and a healer, even one in the village, would take a hefty chunk of their already depleted earnings.

Being a knight was a costly service. Ser Brandon's horse, a red courser built for battle, had dragged Tommen from school and turned him into a jack of all trades. No odd job was turned down: roof repair, babysitting, fishing, sewing. But his father was a proud man, and set his teeth fitfully when he saw his only son doing 'woman's work' as he deemed it. Regardless, he still took the gold, lips twisted downward into a sneer that made Tommen feel like he had murdered children to get the money instead of doing hard work.

Holding his silence when his eyes burned, Tommen shuffled into the room, locking the door behind him. If-when-the dead got in, this room would be his sanctuary. The bookcase, empty now that the books had been tossed out in desperation to make it lighter, would be the only shield he had to prevent them from getting in, once they breached into the house.

Perhaps they would search the house for him, scratching and howling until they caught scent of his blood and bashed the last door in. Fear choked him then, a tight fist gripping his heart until tears pricking his eyes.

In the dark, even he could not see his tears; he had no fear his sightless mother or absent father would bare witness to his shame. Blinking away hot tears, he nibbled on the salted pork to chewed away the worst of the rot, palming the tough meat until it was soft enough for his mother to chew. It left a bitter taste in his mouth but he swallowed the vile meat with eagerness. Anything in his stomach, rotten or not, would stop the cramping.

With practiced ease, he angled his mother's head up and opened her mouth, setting the unspoiled portion between her teeth. She chewed automatically-an innate response that gave Tommen no indication of her mental state-and swallowed with some difficulty. He pressed a waterskin-half frozen from his trek outside-to her lips to wash it down and took his seat at the foot of her bed, digging inside the chest that resided there.

It's insides were slung out and Tommen took in his remaining defenses. A blanket to ward away the cold and an old wood axe that had seen better days laid before him. Somehow, he knew his father would have been able to survive with even less. Yet, he fumbled in the dark, forever a mockery to his name.

The steel, while rust free, was not meant for flesh and bone; it would be of little use to him against the armored knight outside.

Regret seized him. His father's sword was the only steel of use against armor and he'd lost it in his panic. He silently prayed that his defense-weak as they were-would not be tested until he got some rest. Even well rested, it would be a death sentence for him to face the dead again.

Knights, the few that remained after the castle closed, had fallen-even his father. No more midnights passed with men and monsters fighting in the dark; the silence was endless as snowfall.

Securing his last shield, he took hold of the bookcase and pushed, wedging it firmly against the door. Task done, he took his place beside his mother, axe in hand. The rotten pork hit his stomach hard but he fisted his tunic in a sweaty hand and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of unwashed skin and blood.

Blind now, he could hear creaking. The wind, ice cracking, dead scratching along the walls and beating themselves against his wooden fortress. They knew where he was now; they wouldn't wait in the homes they died in to rot until their legs fell off. They would find a way in and steal the last bit of human warmth in Redcliffe.

A window down the hall had been smashed in a day passed, but a hasty barrier had been erected before the dead could discover his weakness. Snow, and sound, still managed to worm its way in; Tommen could taste the cold on his lips and swallowed deeply, feeling the air bite all the way down his throat. The air was sweet but his stomach was rolling so violently he could scarce enjoy it.

Willing himself to tune out the creaking from outside, he murmured a soft prayer and focused on his breathing. He was alive, his mother was alive-those things outside were not.

His efforts for rest were ill rewarded when a new sound filtered from down the hall and filled his ears. Footsteps, haggard breathing, grunting. A crash rang out and he went stock-still, throat tightening around a yelp. He stood slowly, wincing when the floorboards creaked under the weight of his steel boots.

Wood and rusted nails would not last long against the might of those Maker forsaken creatures. One look at his final shield sent a fist of worry straight to his gut. It would not stand long, especially if the knight found his way inside. All thoughts of staying, cornered like the rat, flew from his mind the moment he heard another crash. The resounding thud seemed to shake the whole house and Tommen bit his lip hard, edging toward the door with one eye on his mother.

The sounds were rousing her; she moved, thin fingers squeezing the sheets in desperate handfuls, chest rising and falling rapidly with each ragged breath. Gargling came from her throat, reminding him of the young knight outside , and he fought to cover his ears. Her gasping increased to nauseating heights when another clatter came from down the hall and Tommen beat his hands against the bookcase, trying not to push it against the door but to tear it away.

It would only take a second for the creatures to discover where they were when they got in. It surprised him that they hadn't started a two pronged attack by going at the door too, but Tommen could only thank the Maker for that.

That was all the blessings he got, however. The candles were still out, casting the hall in shadows so black all he could see was thanks to the mindless brute smashing his window in. Carefully, Tommen shut the door behind him and clung to the wall, sliding closer until he could smell the armored man pressed against the window.

One steel covered arm was thrust inside between two boards, fingers splayed out like a spider along the wall, but he managed to gain no more ground; his pauldron was caught, holding him flush against the house. Sensing his position, the man struggled, jerking for a moment before stilling to groan.

On closer inspection, Tommen could see the man's hair was frosted with ice, gold strands plastered to his tan forehead. His gauntlets were charred; besides that he looked unharmed, but foul magic could take the healthiest of men and make him a husk without wearing at the body.

Redcliffe knights were many; he knew not all their names, and their faces were often morphed during death so it was impossible to go by sight, but the armor looked unfamiliar. Leather was not used often by Redcliffe's shining knights, whose arms and armor were forged with the finest steel, but when necessity drove at a man he was like to wear anything available.

Tommen had only to look at the wood axe in his hands and the ripped cowl pressed against his neck wound to see the truth of that. Hefting the weapon now, the boy stiffened when the undead knight started to flail again, bashing furiously now that he realized no help was coming from his corpse comrades.

Tommen knew at once how to set him free.

Mimicking the undead knight, Tommen held the axe in unsteady hands and brought it above his head. His mother began crying out again, loud enough that it touched upon his ears and reached the dead man within the same breath.

At once, the man perked up, thrusting his whole weight against the window. A board ripped free and Tommen stifled a scream, seeing that the noise and the man's excitement had drawn the attention of several others: a large, hulking man in plain armor bearing bloody steel; a woman with flaming hair, clutching a wicked bow in milky white hands; an abomination vile enough to wear the Sword of Mercy upon their breasts, yet carry an unholy sword made of glowing steel. A dark shadow clung to the abomination, spitting at the Maker with twist of her blackened staff, and Tommen drew himself up to spit right back at the monsters.

" _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure_ ," he whispered, remembering a prayer his mother would repeat manically after a fit arrested her consciousness. " _What you have created, no one can tear asunder_." And Tommen swung axe with all his might, praying the undead nightmares would leave once their trapped comrade payed for his transgression in blood.

Demons did not feel pain, nor love or pleasure, or anything that makes one human. They roared in rage, their sin of wrath twisting their forms; they screamed their hunger and stuffed their hideous mouths full with bloody flesh. Pain was a mortal plight-a gift from the Maker so that they may know redemption through sacrifice.

When Tommen struck flesh, felt the bones smash under his weapon, saw the gauntlet tear, and blood gush forth, he felt victorious-until the monster let out a very human scream of agony and fell back into the snow, clutching at his mangled hand. Other voices joined in his wordless cry and Tommen's wooden barricade shattered in a wave of heat and steel.

Half the wall dissolved in flame and a spray of molten wood splashed his face and clothing, setting him ablaze before he could retreat. With his world in flames and blood on his hands, Tommen screamed, dropping his axe to bat at the fire licking at his face and clothing. His suffering was short, though every second drenched in flame felt like an eternity; a hand thrust from the inferno and hooked around his shoulders, dragging him through the remains of his barricade to shove him headfirst into the snow.

Icy arms embraced him and for a moment, all pain was erased from his mind. It was not until a blade pressed against his abused throat that he opened his eyes and looked above him. Starvation, darkness, and fear had morphed his mind, he realized at once when he saw a blonde woman(no demon, certainly)was standing above him, great sword in hand. The disbelief in her eyes-eye, he saw, noticing the black patch-was far too real to be the work of a demon.

"An  _imekari_ ," a disinterested voice muttered from behind the armed woman. "I shall cast him back into the flame,  _Basalit-an_." The plain armored man moved beside her, towering over her and wearing a grim face that seemed set in stone even as he offered to throw the boy to his death.

Clearly startled, the woman withdrew her blade and shook her head. "That's not necessary, Sten. Tell me, boy, what is your name?"

"My name is Tommen Wilhelm and I am no boy, ser," he squeaked, blinking past the steam coming off his hot clothes and skin. He had faced fire and steel and undead, he had suffered starvation and witnessed his mother withering away. He was a boy no longer.

A dark look passed over her face, but the woman smiled sadly. "Fire changes us all. Very well...I am Catherine, of the Grey Wardens. Perhaps you could tell us what's going on here," she requested, lips thinning when the man behind her started to gasp in pain. "It'd be best if you spoke quickly; you just crippled my brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the read! The next chapter will focus more on Catherine/Morrigan and someone new(and important to Catherine's past) will be showing up.
> 
> Notes:   
> "Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,
> 
> I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.
> 
> I shall endure.
> 
> What you have created, no one can tear asunder." -Trials 1:10, The Chant of Light
> 
> Imekari-Child
> 
> Basalit-an-A non-Qunari worthy of respect

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading XD Review please, it'll help me get going on the next chapter, which should hopefully be out in the next few days!


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